


Marks of Weakness, Marks of Woe

by Barbarismbeginsathome



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Javert is desperate and sad, M/M, Madeleine Era, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Revenge, The timeline here is all over the place oops, Valjean tries to help, and you know what they say about good intentions, kind of, very petty revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbarismbeginsathome/pseuds/Barbarismbeginsathome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was adamant that he be punished, and Madeleine understood why. That didn't make the admission any less jarring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I may or may not have a serious thing for long-haired Javert. I may or may not have an even more serious thing for desperate, sad Javert finally understanding why people steal. Not that he's going to admit it to himself. 
> 
> Title is from "London" by William Blake, because I'm all about being as dramatic and extra as possible.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://spaceviking.tumblr.com/) for more garbage hot off the presses

The mayor sits at his oak desk, massaging his temples.

  
  "You do then admit," he says in a weary voice, "that you are aware of the consequences of your action."  
The man seated across from him gives a short nod. It suggests a certain measure of quiet, desperate dignity that stirs sympathy in Madeleine. Javert had been one of his best officers, and that, Madeleine supposed, was why he'd turned himself in. A man like Javert was never going to stop policing, badge or no badge. It was not in his nature to do anything else, and the mayor doubted that it had ever occurred to the man that he _could_  do anything else.

  
Still he'd demanded to be relieved of his duties after accusing the mayor. He was adamant that he be punished, and Madeleine understood why. That did not make the admission any less jarring. To hear that the former Inspector Javert had committed any sort of crime, petty as it may have been, was outlandish to him. Still, Javert made no attempt to claim his innocence. He had become as desperate as any other criminal in Paris the day before, when his debts finally caught up to him. He'd stolen a sturdy pair of boots from the local cobbler, perhaps- no, surely- intending to repay the man. Still, the damage was done. Madeleine muses over the irony of it.  
"I ask only for enough time to place my affairs in order," Javert says, voice soft but firm.

  
The mayor nods. "Of course, Inspe- Monsieur Javert. But I must inform you..." He pauses. Javert stares ahead blankly, expectantly. The mayor had seen those eyes filled with everything from rage to determination to grief, but never had they been so empty. Watching them, he begins again.

  
"Due to your past service, I have lobbied for your sentence to be reduced." He pauses, searching the flat grey irises for any spark of emotion, recognition. He tries again. "You are a good man, Javert. I should like to have you back after your time is served, if you so will it." Oh, he is baiting the bear now.

  
Javert nods slowly.  
"Where?" He asks. The mayor considers what the man must be thinking, running every prison and camp and institution he's ever visited, either as a guard or an arresting officer.

  
The mayor clears his throat. "Toulon," he says, almost sheepishly. "Thirty-six months." This was not his decision. The humiliation of it was suited, fair, to the man who sat before him (or at least, to the man he used to be). A former guard as well as a lawman, he'd been decorated and praised for his ruthlessness in both professions. But looking at Javert now, Madeleine almost mourned the fact that the town judge had the distinction of being the only man in France harsher than Javert.

  
"I see." Javert flinches, only for a second or so, but flinches all the same. He opens and closes his mouth, searching. Madeleine is surprised. Javert had always been a man of few words, but never had he been at a loss for them. He watches Javert twist a dark blond lock of hair around his finger. He's wearing it down, spilling over his shoulders in waves. There is something romantic about it, and Madeleine assumes that Javert has likely sold the silk ribbons he used to tie it back.  
It's a subconscious movement, fidgeting. He's no doubt imagining himself close-cropped, clean shaven, just like any other prisoner. The mayor's voice is gentle. "It is not such a long time. I will see to it that you are not unemployed when you return. You are more fortunate than most."

Javert flinches again, then inhales. His eyes dart to the commissioner's. "May I ask you a question?"  
Madeleine nods, noting the new fire in Javert's eyes.

  
"I wonder... I wonder if I may repay the man? I will not beg you like a dog for my position back- I would not insult you or myself. However, if I could put things right..."

  
Madeleine looks at Javert with a raised brow. This is not like him, to try and bargain. But Toulon is not any prison, and Javert knows that. He is afraid. Madeleine cannot fault him for that. But the issue of payment... Of course. Javert would never let Madeleine set him free without it.  
  
Madeleine looks him over. His eyes trace the scuffed shoes, the worn trousers. It is a cold day, and the former inspector is without a coat. Finally, Madeleine's eyes fall on Javert's hair. When their roles were reversed, Madeleine- Valjean- often fantasized about grabbing Javert by it and sawing it off. That, or using it as a handhold while he beat the guard's head against the stone walls. It depended on Valjean's mood. It really was lovely hair, even now, in Javert's middle age.

  
Madeleine nearly blurts it. "I know a hairdresser. She is a kind woman, and reputable. My daughter adores her. She has been known to pay very well for hair such as yours, and if you wish..." He trails off, unwilling to look into Javert's eyes. This is a fair trade. This is more than Javert deserves, all considered. The fact remains, however, that it would merely take a walk to the courthouse to have Javert fully pardoned. But this is Javert. He would never allow such a thing, would he?

  
Madeleine would be lying if he claimed he wasn't deriving some small amount of pleasure from this. He thinks of Fantine, of poetic justice. He feels wicked.  
Javert clears his throat, then speaks. He falters. "My hair... Very well. I thank you for your kindness, Monsieur. Truly."

This is killing him.

  
Madeleine's mouth gets the better of him once more. "Would you prefer it done now? That way it will be over with, and I can assist you in contacting this cobbler. If you wish, I will send a porter with the payment. You needn't bear any further humiliation."  
Javert's cheeks have gone red under his whiskers. The "humiliation" comment wasn't meant to sting, but it was obvious that it had. It was unlike Madeleine to be so tactless. He supposed Javert had that effect on him.

  
"I have scissors- meant for cutting fabric, but they'll do- they're sharp. It will be quick," he assures, speaking faster than he can think. Javert's face is blank once more and Madeleine recognizes the expression for what it is: Javert's version of despair.  
"Very well," he says again.

  
The next few moments are a haze of Javert standing awkwardly near the doorway while Madeleine spreads newsprint on the floor around a chair. This is madness, Madeleine thinks. This is not happening. Still, when he nods toward the chair Javert sits in it, obedient as a dog. The comparison reminds Madeleine once more of how far he's risen, how far Javert has fallen. He reminds himself once more that this is a fair price to pay, that Javert wouldn't allow a full pardon. This is true, but Madeleine still feels as though he should have offered one regardless. "You may sit," he says, gesturing to the chair with false casualty. Javert sits.

  
Madeleine makes quick work with a comb, running it through the soft hair with ease. Javert is a vain man, it seems, at least in this regard. His hair is in perfect condition. He would have money to spare once the ordeal was over. Madeleine reminds himself of this as he combs. "Your hair is lovely," he says. This was meant to comfort Javert, but it seems a taunt once said aloud. Javert is quiet. Madeleine continues his work, marveling at the other man's hair. He thinks of abandoning this whole affair, giving in to the heat settling in his lips and abdomen, pulling Javert's head back for a kiss. He clears his throat, shakes his head.

  
Madeleine reaches for the scissors on his desk, glancing back at Javert as he does. The expression hasn't changed. Javert hardly seems to blink.  
"May I?" Madeleine asks, giving Javert his chance to run. To where, he thinks. Where would Javert go if not here? That is the hell of it, is it not? He thinks of Toulon.

  
"Yes," Javert says. The word drips ice.

  
Taking his cue, Valjean lifts a long lock and snips it off at the scalp. Javert gasps involuntarily and Madeleine fights to ignore it. He thinks of chattering to pass the time, to ease Javert's anxiety, but knows better. So he works efficiently, clipping Javert's hair short.

  
He is halfway through when he notices Javert's broad shoulders are trembling. He is a large man, and his shudders make for harder work. Madeleine pauses. The sound of the scissors is replaced with Javert's hitching breath. He is crying. The shock of it nearly drives Madeleine to laugh, in spite of his pity for the man. He did not know Javert was capable of tears.

  
This is too cruel, he thinks. This is folly. But he can't stop now; half-shorn, Javert looks ridiculous. Madeleine bites his tongue, rests a hand on Javert's arm. "There now," he says gently. "It will grow again. All will be well, do not cry. You will have your hair back twofold in the time it would have taken for you to leave Toulon." In a moment of thoughtlessness he takes his handkerchief and dries Javert's tears, caresses the thick whiskers at the sides of Javert's face, imagining a man comforting his lover. He does not intend for the action to be condescending, but he supposes there is no other way Javert will view it. Still, Madeleine is certain he feels Javert leaning into the touch, if only for a moment. Madeleine wonders how long it has been since anyone had touched Javert with any sort of tenderness. Then he pulls away again.

  
"I know that," Javert says. His voice is halting. "Just finish. With all respect, Monsieur, just finish and let me on my way. This is more than I deserve and I thank you, but please-" Javert swipes his sleeve over his eyes and nods at Madeleine to continue.  
When it is over, Javert has regained his composure. He has not yet seen his reflection, and for that Madeleine is glad. He was never much of a barber. The rough, uneven stubble makes Javert look somehow both more brutal and more boyish. His eyes are downcast, refusing to meet Madeleine's.

  
Madeleine feels another surge of regret when he looks from Javert's cropped head to the pile of honey-colored locks covering the desk. He'll need to gather them up to send to the hairdresser's, but for now they remain scattered over the top like strands of silk thread.

"As I said, your position awaits you should you change your mind." This is true, and it helps to assuage Madeleine's guilt somewhat.  
Javert does not dignify that with a response. He reaches a tentative hand to touch the shortened hairs, but Madeleine catches it, carefully places it back down at Javert's side. The guilt returns, stronger than ever. Madeleine wishes to pull Javert into an embrace, to tell him he is sorry, to beg him to let his pride alone and return to his life. He wishes to tell him that he forgives him, for his mistake was an honest one. But this is Javert, he thinks. This is Javert, and he is his own harshest judge. Another man's forgiveness means nothing.

  
Madeleine sighs. He shakes Javert's hand once, twice, and walks him to the door. "I should hope to see you again soon, Monsieur. Perhaps tomorrow? We may discuss matters pertaining to your employment- if you wish, of course." He does not expect a reply. When Javert gives a short nod, his heart soars. He will make this right. Javert opens the office door.

 

"All will be well, Inspector," Madeleine calls to Javert's retreating back. By God he hopes it is true.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Javert. Right on.

The autumn afternoon is an unusually cold one, with wind that cuts straight through Madeleine's wool jacket. He was told by the messenger boy he sent this morning that the former (former was a word Madeleine had to continuously remind himself to use) inspector was feeling poorly and requested that the meeting be postponed. 

This will not do, Madeleine thinks as he makes his way toward Javert's boardinghouse. They will meet today. They will sort things out, and all will be well- or at least, as well as possible- again. Madeleine cannot fully comprehend his feelings toward the other man, but he is certain of one fact: he does not wish for him to come to harm, not anymore. 

As he moves briskly down the road the buildings become ever more shabby. The air is thick with the smell of rotting food and unwashed bodies. It is a smell Jean Valjean is intimately familiar with, and one Madeleine tolerates. He has work to do, memories of the past be damned. Yet as the figures of young painted women pass through the doorways of the buildings, he cannot help but to think of Fantine; the fact that the very man he intends to help is the same man who failed her all those years ago, and the fact that Madeleine intends to bring this man home, into the same building where their daughter spends her days. 

He wonders what Fantine thinks about forgiveness. At the very least, he can hope that she will forgive him for aiding a desperate man.  
-  
Madeleine had not expected much, and yet he is still shocked by the state of the boardinghouse where Javert is staying. The fact that the building is still standing is as much of a shock as the fact that it now houses one of the proudest men Madeleine has ever encountered. 

He raps his knuckles gently at he front door, then harder when he realizes the sound is likely being drowned out by the infant that wails from somewhere inside. 

A grizzled, older man opens the door and looks Madeleine over. For the first time since setting out, Madeleine is stricken by how out of place he must look. He wonders if this whole endeavor might be better left to the messenger boy from this morning. And then he steels himself, chases the thought away and scolds himself for thinking such a thing. This is his affair, and he will see to it on his own. 

The man appears to make up his mind about Madeleine and moves aside to allow him in. He says nothing beyond "good day," then retreats back down the darkened hall to the left. 

Madeleine takes the opposite route. Someone has quieted the child, and the rooms are now eerily silent, as if their inhabitants are aware of this intruder. He suppresses a shiver. Fantine is on his mind again for what seems like the hundredth time today. He wonders if she had called such a place as this her home before landing so unceremoniously on the streets. He supposes such things must happen every day to women, men and children alike; all under his watch. The thought horrifies him. 

He stops at the door to room 157 and listens for any sign that Javert is still home. It is much the same as with the other rooms- not a single sound can be heard save for the rattling of carts outside. He knocks once, twice, three times. No response. 

He tries the door. To his surprise and (if he is being honest) elation, the door swings open and Madeleine is greeted by the soft sounds of breathing. 

Javert is here, and Madeleine is dismayed to see that the porter was not exaggerating- Javert did not at all seem well. He had hoped the sudden illness was an excuse, a reason to avoid feeling the sting of humiliation for the second time. But this is not the case, it seems. 

Javert is curled like a cat against the far wall of the room, covered only by a few shirts. His face is pale save for two bursts of red high on his feverish cheeks. The only other features of the room are a small wooden crate that must serve as a wardrobe, a bible, and a toiletry kit that included a fine ivory brush and comb set. 

Still, it is impeccably clean when compared to the rest of the building that houses it. Javert is apparently fastidious about his sweeping and dusting habits. 

Noticing these details, Madeleine suddenly feels like an intruder. It occurs to him for the first time that he has, in fact, entered the home of a former police inspector without permission. He has no right. But these are not ordinary circumstances, he reminds himself. This is for the best. 

Madeleine closes the door slowly behind him and approaches Javert's sleeping form with the same caution and reverence as he would afford to a bear in hibernation. Javert stirs, mumbles something in his deep, sleep-thick voice about having just paid. The phrase "let me be" is clear, though. 

"I am not your landlord, inspector, do not trouble yourself over that," Madeleine says. The pale eyes ease open. 

"Monsieur le Maire. Forgive me, I... I assumed the porter you sent had informed you that I was ill." He struggles to his feet and brushes imaginary dust off the front of his shirt. Madeleine is certain he detects the faint scent of wine coming from the fabric, and wonders briefly if Javert is drunk. He does not appear to be, but Madeleine cannot be sure. 

 

Madeleine pushes the notion away and nods. "I am aware. And it's no small wonder, in this cold. I must ask a favor of you, Monsieur Javert."

Javert makes a vain attempt to cover the sound of his sigh. "Yes?" The "s" is slurred, and Madeleine's suspicions are confirmed. He frowns, clears his throat. "If I cannot convince you to re-enlist in the police force, j must insist that you come home with me for the time being. My home is modestly furnished, but I shall see to it that you'll be quite comfortable there." 

Javert looks at him as though he's suddenly sprouted a third arm. He shakes his head quickly, letting slip a short cough. Madeleine tries a different route. 

"Only for the time being, until you are well again. You may earn your keep if you wish, it is of no consequence to me. I cannot in good conscience leave you- anyone- in your time of need. Let me do this, Javert." 

Javert sighs, massages his temples as if a great headache is coming on. "I am not one of your charity cases, Monsieur. Or I do not wish to be, if you will forgive me."

Madeleine is unsurprised. The previous day's penitence could not last forever, and Javert's natural cockiness would always win out in the end. 

"As I said, Javert, I do not offer you charity. You will earn your keep as soon as you are able. I only wish to assist you in becoming your own man again." 

"My own man?" Javert says this as though the words are sour on his tongue. "Monsieur, do not insult me. I beseech you." 

Madeleine's urge to roll his eyes grows so strong he's unable to fight it. "Please, Javert. If not for your sake, then for mine. Put my mind at ease." 

Javert looks around the room, from the rags that made his bed to the toiletry kit he evidently hasn't been able to bring himself to pawn. He looks to Madeleine, nods once. "All right. One week." 

 

As Javert's coughs grow more severe, Madeleine regrets bitterly that he did not hail a carriage when he had the chance. "Not much longer now," he says with false good cheer. It is another mile or so to home, and he hopes Javert will make it that long. 

"You said the same half an hour ago," Javert mutters. 

"I shall call for a doctor, if you'd like. You look pale." 

He is unsurprised when Javert merely shakes his head, eyes fixed coolly on Madeleine's. "No, I... expect I'll feel much better come morning." 

 

-

When they arrive, Javert is barely standing. He refuses Madeleine's help with the stairs, but he seems uncharacteristically delighted with the warm hearth, the welcoming bed and the bowl of soup that awaited him. 

"A sight for sore eyes," he says, and struggles to unlace his boots. He resorts to kicking them off and away, then falls gracelessly onto the bed. Madeleine hurries to him, fusses over the blankets, and places a cool hand on Javert's forehead. 

Javert smiles ruefully. "This is madness," he slurs. "I am not a child." 

"Hm. You are correct. Children don't often medicate themselves with wine," Madeleine muses. "You have a fever, I'm afraid." He strokes what's left of Javert's hair. 

Javert barks out a laugh. "Leave me be, Monsieur. My head is a sight to see, is it not?" He reaches up to rub at it. "I had planned to shave off the lot of it this morning for neatness' sake, but the wine proved more appealing. I am not in the habit of drinking, you see."

"You needn't worry about that. Have you eaten today?" 

Javert talks over him. "I am certain the last time I was this bald and ugly was when I was an infant. I never gave my face much thought before, truly, but without my hair it is absolutely frightful. There was a man at Toulon when I was young who called me a bulldog. Now I think perhaps he was correct." 

Madeleine shakes his head. "I do not think I've ever heard you talk so much about yourself, Monsieur. Rest, have some soup. I do not know if it is any consolation, but you are hardly 'frightful.' Far from it. With the hair you were handsome. Truly it was a shame to see it go. But without it... Striking, perhaps, but not frightful." 

He has said too much, Madeleine thinks. Far, far too much. He wishes to clamp his hands over his mouth, to run from the room. Worst of all, he wishes to stay. 

Javert frowns. "Is that so? You seemed quite content to rid me of my vanity yesterday. I understand, truly. I do not deserve to be so self-indulgent. I do not want the money, either. Give it to the cobbler, or keep it. This is my punishment, and I suppose I may as well bear it." He yawns and closes his eyes. 

"You are like me, Monsieur le Maire. You wish to better the world. I have deserved much worse than this for what I have done." 

Madeleine's cheeks burn hot and he thinks of telling Javert exactly who he is comparing himself to. "No," he murmurs. "You speak as though you burned the man's shop to ashes. He would not have been sent to the poorhouse over a pair of boots. Your debt is paid." He lifts the bowl to Javert's lips in a vain attempt to make him drink. 

Javert dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. His voice is becoming agitated. "No. You cannot understand- I should have been grateful to receive penance, and I was not. To be truthful, I am still not. I am met with chances at every turn to right my wrongs and I deny them. I wept like some old beggar when you cut my hair. I jumped at the chance to leave my room and run to the promise of a bed and a warm fire. I..." He trails off. His pale eyes well with tears once more, a far cry from the jovial or angry drunks he'd alternated between. 

Madeleine sighs. "You are only a man, Javert. Nothing more." He takes Javert's hand in his. "No one can fault you for that." 

Javert does not respond, but his tears seem to have dried. He takes his hand away and folds it across his chest. Madeleine watches those eyes, hoping to find what Javert is thinking. He finds nothing. He had never before though Javert a difficult man to decipher, but of course he had never before been so intimate with him. 

"Intimate" was a word that sent shivers down Madeleine's spine, but he supposed there was no other word to describe their situation. Had he not marked Javert with his shears, comforted him as he cried, brought him into his home? Into his own bed? 

"I'll leave you to rest. I am sleeping in the parlor tonight, if you have need of me." He stands to go. 

"Why the parlor?" Javert asks thickly. "Do not permit me to rob you of your bed, Monsieur. I shall take the parlor, you will sleep here." 

His attempts to climb out from under the thick quilts are pitiful, to say the least. Madeleine has to bite back a smile. 

"No, Javert. I assure you I am quite all right. You will not be nearly as comfortable and I'll not have you getting sicker in the cold." 

Javert's eyes narrow, and Madeleine feels the memories of Toulon wash over him. Now, Javert does not seem angry, only resolute. 

"Then you will join me. There is plenty of room, and I will not have it any other way. You have been too good to me, Madeleine, and I will not have you sleeping on some couch. If I am to stay here, so are you." 

Madeleine is aware of three things: the first is that he has absolutely no business sleeping beside Javert. The man is drunk, feverish and possibly ill. 

The second is that Javert is nothing if not stubborn. He fully intends to move to the parlor, even to the floor, if Madeleine refuses. 

The third is that Madeleine would like nothing more than to lie in bed with this man at arm's reach, feeling his warmth and listening to the calm, slow sounds of his breath. This is the idea that frightens him the most. 

He bites his lip. "Very well. Make room, if you please." Javert obeys quickly, and Madeleine swears to himself as he sees the ghost of a smile cross Javert's face. 

Madeleine slips out of his shoes and overcoat, careful not to raise the sleeves of his shirt and let the old prison markings give him away. 

"This is ridiculous," he murmurs. Javert seems to hear, and his raspy bark of a laugh nearly makes him swoon. Gingerly he approaches his bed and slips under he covers. He settles himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling. 

They lie in silence for some time, but Madeleine is sure Javert is not asleep, merely thinking again.

"Madeleine." Javert's voice is soft again, but calm. Madeleine turns to face him and sees that he is staring ahead. 

"Yes?" He attempts to keep his voice even, neutral. 

Javert clears his throat and looks away. "Yesterday... You called me a good man. Tell me, do you believe that to be true?" He is fidgeting, running his fingers along his left sideburn in lieu of his hair. 

Madeleine does not hesitate. "Yes, I do." He cups Javert's chin and turns his head to face his own. Their eyes meet once more and Madeleine feels the old fear return along with the warmth he felt last night with his hands combing through Javert's hair. 

"You are a good man, inspector."

Javert nods once, smiles slightly. He releases himself from Madeleine's grip and settles in again, this time a little closer to Madeleine. 

"You called me handsome," he says, a sort of awe in his voice. "Did you not?"

"That... That is true as well," Madeleine said. He feels his cheeks flushing and is grateful for the dim light of the fire. 

Javert grins, and for once it does not seem predatory. 

"You are a difficult man to understand, Monsieur," he says. 

Madeleine nods. "so are you."


End file.
